Wildest Dream

Chapter 22

"You look tired, Dri."

I grimaced, pulling my hair into a low ponytail as we stood at the foot of the law school's staircase. I was a step above Rocco, just tall enough to look him in the eye without tilting my chin. He always had this annoying way of making statements that sounded charming to most girls—just not to me.

"You mean I look like crap," I deadpanned.

He chuckled. "You law students and your dramatics. It's a perk of being friends, you know. Brutal honesty."

"Oh please, you're still bitter about that 'sad selfie' comment I left on your profile pic last month."

"I still don't know why I've stayed friends with you this long," he said, and I jabbed him hard in the arm. He winced, rubbing the spot, but I didn't buy the performance.

"By the way," he added, rubbing his shoulder, "if it makes you feel better—ang gandang tae mo naman."

"How sweet," I said dryly, switching my books to the other arm. "Does Larissa know you say stuff like that?"

He paused. I didn't miss the flicker in his eyes. "You saw us?"

"At Italianni's," I nodded. "So... you're back together?"

He grabbed my arm and gently pulled me aside, away from the foot traffic of students swarming the entrance. "It's not what it looked like. She wanted closure. I gave it. That's it."

I rolled my eyes and pushed at his chest. "Grabe ka. Gwapo mo talaga, Rocco."

He chuckled—barely—but then his expression shifted. That familiar look surfaced, the one he wore every time he was about to ask a question too heavy for the moment.

"But not gwapo enough to be yours?"

My smile faltered. A jolt of something—maybe regret, maybe guilt—flashed through me. "Rocco, are we really going back to that?"

He looked away, sighing. "No. Not anymore."

Trying to clear the tension, I nudged the conversation elsewhere. "Aren't you supposed to be at duty or something? Isn't Med now based in Ortigas?"

"Ouch," he said, clutching his chest dramatically. "You're kicking me out already? After everything we've been through?"

"Don't flatter yourself. Ang drama mo."

"Madrama, yes," he said, pulling something from behind his back, "but I also come bearing gifts."

My eyes lit up when I saw it.

"Java Chip Frap?!" I gasped, snatching it like he'd just handed me an Oscar.

"You know me too well," I said, already sipping.

He grinned. "Now you have no reason to kick me away."

I smiled, warmth flickering in my chest—but it quickly faded the moment my eyes caught movement down the pathway.

Maven.

He was headed toward the carpark, shirt sleeves rolled up, his bag slung over one shoulder like he wasn't carrying the weight of everything we weren't.

He looked up. Our eyes met.

And in that instant, I was back in that dimly-lit room from weeks ago, where strobe lights danced and his gaze pinned me like gravity. Back to the night that felt like everything was possible—before we both got in the way of it.

I held his gaze.

I smiled.

He didn't smile back.

He just stared, and in his eyes were too many things: pain, restraint, maybe even a goodbye. I memorized his face then. The curve of his mouth. The eyes that once looked at me like I was the only thing that mattered.

And then I turned away.

Later that night, after a long, hot shower and a good cry I refused to admit to, I opened my laptop. Sushmita's name blinked on Skype.

[Incoming Call: Sushmita Waterhouse]
| Answer with Video |

"Finally!" she said, her face lighting up my screen. "I've been ghosted for days. You hoebag."

"Hello to you too," I said, arms crossed. "It's been crazy here. Time zones suck."

"Excuses," she waved. "But—ugh. You've got that face again."

I blinked. "What face?"

"That post-winter-break Manila face. Dan Brown was right. Manila is the gateway to hell. You look like someone dragged you through five layers of it."

I laughed despite myself. "Everyone keeps telling me I look like crap."

"Who said that? I'm flying over to fight them."

I smiled, sipping tea, "No need. It's... complicated."

Her brow lifted. "Is this a Dad thing again?"

I looked away. "Let's not talk about him."

Sushmita leaned in closer. "Then it's something else. Spill."

I hesitated. "It's someone I like. Someone I shouldn't."

"Oh my God," she gasped, setting down her drink. "You? Liking someone? And not just anyone—someone forbidden?"

I nodded, chewing my lip.

"And let me guess," she continued. "Tall. Broody. Possibly emotionally unavailable?"

"He's... not supposed to matter. But he does."

She stilled, watching me carefully.

"Go after him."

I froze. "What?"

"Go after him. That's what you do when you love someone."

"It's not love," I said, too quickly. "It's not supposed to be."

"But it is." Her voice softened. "And the Adrianna I know doesn't sit back when it comes to the things that matter."

I didn't reply.

Instead, I looked down at the book Maven had lent me. Nestled between the pages was a small note I hadn't noticed before.

You can do it. I believe in you. – M.

Something inside me cracked open.

Maybe Sushi was right.

Maybe I had to stop being afraid of what could go wrong and start trusting what already felt right.

"I think you're right," I whispered.

"Of course I am," she said, beaming.

I ended the call, closed my laptop, and before I could second-guess myself, grabbed the books and took the elevator to Maven's floor.

At his door, I hesitated.

What if someone else was inside? What if he slammed the door in my face?

But then the door opened.

And there he was—barefoot, towel draped around his neck, that same scent of sandalwood and spice wrapping around me like a memory.

His brows lifted in surprise. "You."

I held up the books. "I came to return these."

But my voice said something else.

So did his smile.

And suddenly, we weren't strangers again.

Not quite.

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